Sick of the Dream
by DXRULES103
Summary: Will Graham fic. He was tired of the game. He was sick of the dream. But he can't escape.
1. Sickness

Disclaimers: I do not own Red Dragon, Will Graham, or Hannibal. Never will.

Sometimes the truth didn't matter. Lies were apart of it all; streaming in from the flow of blood inside. Will knew that. Hannibal knew it too. Because of that knowledge Hannibal continued to irk Will with his truth and the realism of the lie.

"You my Will can never live without the fear." Hannibal said taking a bite out of his dinner."It stays with you always. No matter how long you try to bury it. It rises up and takes hold."

Will took a drink of his water bottle and nodded. He turned his head away and coughed. He had a cold; not from bacteria but from Hannibal Lector himself.

"Sick?" Hannibal asked, eyebrows raising with a curious look.

Will smiled slightly, "Depends on the meaning. Sick from a disease or bacteria; like a cold? No. Sick like I'm bored and want to do something else? No, that happens only in mornings. Sick that I'm tired of playing this stupid game with you; maybe."

Hannibal replied instantly, "Of me? Good because this game needs to end."

Will nodded in acceptance and stood up. He had Hannibal right in front of him, alone and weak. He took out his gun and aimed.

Hannibal smiled. He knew this would happen.

"Dream of me."


	2. Sanity's Nightmare

Disclaimers: Don't Own Nothing of the characters.

A/n: At first I thought I would leave this as a one-shot but something came into my head and well I've got to put it up.. Enjoy!

He heard the fire. He heard the cries. He heard the souls leaving the victim's bodies.

_The shuddering and the trembling of the innocence of the lost are now falling. He is falling with them; blind and scarred while able to feel exactly what was happening. He opened his mouth and tasted blood. The blood entered his body and he tried to stop but he was choking and gagging. The blood was suffocating him._

_He sees him. The man he hated and begrudgingly admired was right in front of him. He was not tied to a chair and he was cold. He wanted warmth but he could not find it. No, hope was gone and his fear was growing.._

_"Dream of me…" The man's eyes were blood red._

_He screamed. _

He heard his heartbeat. He heard his thoughts. He heard his sanity flee from his mind.


	3. Tears of the Forsaken

Disclaimers: I do not own anything of the characters. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are not mine.

_"Do you dream much?" _

Graham was afraid. He was frightened. He feared.

_It was raining. The drops were like tears constantly falling because of grief for the dead. It was his fault. The tears would fall hard on him. He cannot stop them. _

Will Graham was scared. He was terrified. He feared.

_The faces. He could feel and see their faces. All of them. Some had eyes and others empty sockets. Some of their tongues were cut out and others not. They all stared at him. They stared. He screamed but no sound came out. They were chasing him. They were calling out, "Dream of me! Why can you not save me? You forsook me!" _

_There was a mirror. He looked into it. The reflection was not his face. It was Hannibal's. He stepped away from the mirror in shock, but it kept getting closer and closer to him. Every time he made move the image of the reflecting Hannibal did the same exact move that he did. _

_"Do you dream much?" he and the reflected Hannibal asked. Their eyes widen as fear crept inside. "Dream of me."_

Yes, he dreamt too much.


	4. Time's Clock

Disclaimers: I do not own Will Graham or Hannibal Lector. I will never own them.

A/N: I love angst. William Graham angst will come. Beware! Anyway enjoy!

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _The clock's sound was heard and hated.

Will didn't like time. He knew what time did. It was long and harsh and nothing could ever happen. He didn't like the clock.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _The clock struck one and Will knew everything was done.

He didn't concern himself with time. He heard plenty of sayings such as "time heals all things." But that didn't work for him. Time only made the wounds grow stronger and deeper. No, time heals nothing. It just goes.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _The clock is beating its song.

What is time to him? What is fate? What is the clock? Every time he worked as a "special investigator" with the FBI he would watch the clock. He would watch the large and the small pointing handle slowly turn and turn as the seconds handle went round and round. Time was something out of his control. The clock was something he could tamper with. But still the time of the clock was inevitably away from his reach.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _The clock slowed down.

He himself had a clock in him; a clock that was his dreams. They would come and come and right now he felt them come again. He could watch the clock and he knew that when the dreams came it would cease to move. He loathed that moment but it would occur. The clock is unmovable. No, time is the enemy. Dreams go with time. That itself was a lie.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. _The clock stopped.


	5. Denial of Injuries Deserved

Disclaimers: I do not own Will Graham nor do I own Hannibal Lector.

"**The injuries that befall us unexpectedly are less severe than those which are deliberately anticipated." Marcus Tulius Cicero.**

Scars. Scars are everywhere. His scars. The scar on his face to the hidden scars in his souls. They all hurt and each came upon him when he least expected it. He didn't trust the scars. He didn't trust the memories that would come up from the scars.

The clock was against him because it gave him the scars. It gave him the dreaded pain of scars.

Scars. Scars were his comfort. They are a symbol of the past. They are the symbol of some of the good he had done. And yet they were evil. They were large and they were strong. Scars. He hated his scars.

Each was inflicted by killers, friends, and family but none came from him. At least not yet. **Not yet**. That was the key statement. **Not yet**.

Deranged. Tormented. Deprived. That was what he knew was inside. Deprived. Tormented. Deranged. That is something he cannot hide.

He didn't like his dreams. He wanted his nightmares. He tried to think "happy" thoughts but none came. Even when one did he still would dream. He hated it. Dreams were cold. He was cold. He was hot. He was sick.

He hurt. He was in pain. He was lost. The scar on his face was ugly. It reeked of evil and humiliation. He hurt. He was in pain. He was gone.

But the strange thing was but it came to him in form of surprise was the ache he felt. That trembling ache that he invested into and a thing that he created himself. Maybe if he tried hard enough than the hurt, the pain, the weakness, and the yearning would all disappear but that in itself was futile.

He was cold. He was hurt. He lost. He knew that his small wish wouldn't come true. Why? Why wouldn't it come? Why?

It's because he knows that it's all gone. He knows that he can never return. He knows that it's all wrong. And yet he doesn't want it to change. He doesn't want it to go away. Why? Cause deep within he knows he deserves it and yet he still denies.

"**How often is that the angry man rages denial of what his inner self is telling him." Frank Herbert. **


	6. Memory Dawns

Disclaimers: I do not own William Graham and I never will.

For him the memories always return. They come along with the nightmares of old.

He would try to push them away but it is to no use. He cannot stop them from resurfacing.

Memories were akin to viruses. They come to play him; to punish him, and to torture him. Inside he would fight but he knew he would lose. He doesn't trust himself to sleep. Why should he when he would only dream?

Nothing ever fulfills his longings. The yearnings grow stronger and stronger as a horrid picture of insomnia ensues; keeping him from calling for help.

He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to relive the past. **But he dreams… **

And that makes them all come rushing back.


	7. Tired Crush

Disclaimers: Don't own Will Graham.

_Bound. Broken. _He was bound and broken.

There were chains about him. There are ropes around his neck. Each were suffocation him; each were binding him.

He felt shards inside of him. Sharp, broken shards of glass were poking and piercing his organs, his bones, and his soul.

Did he have a soul? Did he have a mind? Did he have a spirit? Did he have a body?

He must have since he hurt so much. And yet he made himself doubt it. He knew his mind had already slipped. His spirit already was shattered. His body disfigured by a madman. _His soul? _

_Broken. Bound. _His soul was broken and bound.


	8. Inward Fight

Disclaimers: Don't own Will Graham.

Inwardly he felt lost. Inwardly he felt broken. Inwardly he felt everything was the same.

Inward, go inward, Hannibal once said to him.

"That is where everything will fall in place," he had said. "Inward towards fear."

If he went inward he would find a plethora of things. If he delved deep to his fear he would find himself facing a demon- no, a devil.

Going inside he would go and that was where he would fall. What weapons did he have against the monster?

He had none. He would always lose. That was how he would relate to the killers he studied and searched for to face.

Before the monster would make the kill he would wake up out of his "dreamy" rest and be back out into the reality of his world.

Inward he would go and he knew it was no more.

The demon/devil escaped. The kill was made.


	9. Guilt

Disclaimers: I do not own Will Graham nor do I own Hannibal Lector.

Guilty. He was after all guilty. He made many mistakes and he has paid for them. Yes, the guilty shall fall. And he was falling.

Guilty. He never thought he would be guilty. But then again he was just as ignorant as the rest of the people in his world. He let himself believe a lie every time he goes to bed and wakes up in the morning. He was a lie.

Guilty. He didn't want to be guilty. After all he was a person who put guilty people in jail. He was the good person and yet, he was the one in a cage.

Guilty. He didn't want to feel the guilt. He didn't want to feel the regret of his doings. But guilt prevails and now he can't stop but hurt himself.

_If only the guilt can drain away from the guilty man he knows that is himself. _


	10. How Much It Hurt

Disclaimers: I do not own Hannibal and Will Graham.

A/N: Another one.. Enjoy!

A/N: 2: I just realized an on-going typo in my fanfiction. I always use Lector but not Lecter.. Lecter is the correct form… I have no plan on reposting my fics. But I just wanted to acknowledge the mistake. Forgive me but I finally caught it.

He would not stay but he couldn't leave. He was trapped in a place that wouldn't let him go.

He was haunted. The haunting was forever and he grew more afraid. He was afraid about everything. He wasn't sure about anything.

He would asphyxiate on he would say to himself. He would blank out when trying to think. He doesn't know if he could ever be healed. Maybe the curse is something in his blood. But he doesn't know.

He can see the sky blacken. He knows that he is turning blue as he is drawn towards the darkness. He can feel the pull as it tantalizes him. He can feel himself yearn

He wondered what it would be like when he died. Would there be people to mourn him? What would his headstone say? He knows there will be no flowers. That there will be no angels watching over him by gracing the many lines of his soul. No, nothing but stark words would be said.

He tried to smile by he was too weak. He wanted to share with someone but if only he could really speak. If he could not automatically lie and deprive the other of an inner truth. No, it was that it proved just how much it hurt him.

He would not stay but he couldn't leave. He was caged in a place that couldn't let him go.

He never really loved. And for the first time he knew that to be the right answer. He never truly loved. It was all make-believe. He was make-believe.

He imagines. That was his perfect and imperfect gift. Whenever he felt horrible or whenever he felt great joy he could always go back to his imagination. But his heart was imagined. He imagined himself disappearing. It always seemed that no one would ever appear and make him real.

He only wished that he could speak. That if he told someone how everything haunts him. That the haunting cuts through his day and sinks its teeth into my dreams. He tried to tell almost everyone about it. But no one cared that it haunted me.

He was trapped and caged. He was trapped and caged in a place that couldn't and wouldn't let him go, escape, and leave.

He knew that there would be no flowers on his gravesite. That there will be no angel like figures watching over him. Instead there will be stark words. And watching his own body be buried he would try to smile but he was too weak. If only he could share with them all he knew if only he could speak. About just how much everything hurts him.

He wanted to tell them just how much he hurt him…


	11. Hope without a Soul

Disclaimers: Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter are not owned by me. They never will be. Enjoy!

Smiled at himself he did when the sharp pain was struck inside.

Pulled closed by the conformation of their lies.

Bleeding into a glass as his body weakens.

When there is enough to use he will pain the pews.

And he doesn't care how much it hurts because he doesn't know the worst about the denial he keeps inside; a pension for all time.

Cursed by wishes he dreams that he deserves.

But he has no hope. No, daydream to soak in. He is desperate to please and needed _him _to cure his disease.

Choose between the dark and the light? Between shadow and death? What would he choose? He doesn't want to breathe and he doesn't want to sleep. He is finding himself wearing thin as his skin decides to burn.

But he has no life. No, stinking fight to fight. He is desperate for a path to heal his hate in math.

If they saw him fall asleep will the music make him sing? Oh, the pain of drowning inside a pleasant bin.

His faith is gone. His love is gone. His disease leads on.


	12. Captivity

Disclaimers: I do not own Hannibal Lecter nor do I own William Graham.

Captive inside his mind. Captive inside the cell. Captive inside a hell.

No escape for his tattered mind. No escape from the loneliness of his bed.

He doesn't want to breathe and he doesn't want to see for he knows that Fate doesn't believe…

Captivity inside the cell. Captivity inside a frozen hell. Captivity inside the one's who tell him that's he's nothing at all.

No truth to wipe out the pieces. No truth to comfort him with pleasure.

He would not admit to his misgivings because that would mean that he didn't deserve his pain.

What does a captive do alone? What does a captive do in torture?

The pain never recedes. The pain is something he needs.

He is a captive of himself. He knows that somehow he needs help. But that doesn't mean that the pain is worse; it's just that he doesn't want to change.

What will a captive of his own mind do? Would he break as he wants to? Or would he slowly lose his mind? Or will his shattered life come undone?

He doesn't believe in escape. He doesn't know the meaning of the word.

He trapped himself inside. He made himself a captive of his own mind.


	13. Monsters and Ghosts

Disclaimers: Once again I will like to mention that I do not own William Graham and Hannibal Lecter. Enjoy!

"…_**Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes, they win." Stephen King.**_

He was afraid of monsters. He was afraid of ghosts. He didn't like the rumors of demons and foes. He didn't like them at all.

He used to chase after monsters. He used to try to sway into leaving against the ghosts. He didn't like the usage of the phrase of skeletons in the closet because he knew all too well that he held many as well.

He knew Lecter was a monster. He knew that Lecter haunted him even after death. He knew that in Hell Lecter was laughing at his miserable self.

There were questions inside of him. There were questions plaguing him. There were questions that could kill him.

He knew all to well that monsters were true. He knew all to well that ghost were true. He knew all to well that monsters and ghost were real. That didn't stop him from growing oh so scared.

Did there always have to be monsters out there? Did there always have to ghost haunting everywhere? He hated monsters. He despised ghosts. He didn't want them coming after his own horrid post.

He couldn't help but ask himself the hard cold questions. Was he himself a monster? Did the ghosts that haunt him haunt for a good reason? Were they inside him? Could he deny them?

He doubted that. He doubted a lot of things. But when he found out that monsters and ghost can live inside. He knew with no doubt that monsters and ghost are powerful and when constantly faced with them he knew he could be changed...

He knew now that they can win. After all wasn't he a true model for that? He was a model of what facing monsters can do… He was a model of what ghost who are haunting a person can do….  
Monsters and ghost win. And he knew all to well that he would lose.


	14. Something

Disclaimers: Once again I will like to mention that I do not own William Graham and Hannibal Lecter. Enjoy!

"_**The guilty one is not he who commits the sin, but the one who causes the darkness."**_

He just did something. He did something bad. He had made a mark on the world. He made a kill.

He didn't know why he did it. He didn't really care. He just knew that when he opened his eyes that blood was ready to spill.

Lecter once said that he would fall to his fear. He had predicted this outcome. He made sure it would come.

He killed a person. He killed with a gun. He was being taken away after finally getting caught.

It wasn't really his fault… That's what he keeps telling himself. It wasn't his fault that the person died. It was Lecter's… Lecter was the one haunting him… Lecter was the one who made him question his identity…. Lecter…

He was guilty of murder. He was guilty in his trial. He was institutionalized and strapped with a cord.

It was all the influence of the dreams! It was the dreams fault! He cries silent and useless cries. No one will listen… He was crazy in their eyes.

But was it all made up? He kept asking himself that. Did they just catch him when he killed the man who marked him? He didn't know. He didn't care. He was pronounced insane anyways.

He remembered that he was guilty. He remembered that Lecter gave him the shadow. But then again who cares? No one notices the difference.

He had done something. He had done something bad. He had made a mark on the world. He had made a life end.

So what was the difference? That is what he asked. He committed the sin against the person who caused the darkness. He committed the sin against a person who probably showed light.

It was all the same. He was captive inside an asylum. He was no longer outside.

Yet he kept muttering to himself everyday and he would not stop:

"I did something. I did something bad. I made a mark on the world. I think I killed."

But the problem was that he didn't know for sure what exactly he did.


	15. Cry

Disclaimers: I do not own Hannibal Lecter and I will never own Will Graham. Enjoy!

He rocked back and forth. His legs held up high. He tried not to cry.

Crying was something that didn't occur a lot with him. Sure, he had the occasional tears thanks to a painful physical moment but never out of true feelings.

Did he cry when they abandoned him? No, he knew that they were leaving. Did he cry when he looked at the victims of the serial monsters? No, because that was his job; it was his job to find the killers and to study the victims. Did he cry when he realized that his mental state was weakening? No, because no matter how much it hurt he was definitely expecting it.

What did he cry for? He knows very well that no one cried for him. So what was the point that now in solitude was he on the verge of crying? Why was he about to cry?

Did he cry with remorse for the killing? No, he didn't regret putting Lecter back to his place in Hell. But what about the other one? What about the one the authorities said he killed? Did he cry for that person? No, because he never knew his supposed victim. Did he cry when they twelve people condemned him to a life in a crazy house? No, he didn't because he was just confused.

Who did he cry for? He knows very well that there aren't enough feelings out there to cry for. So why was he alone and on the verge of crying? Why was he about to cry?

Crying was something that didn't occur a lot with him. Sure, he had the occasional tears thanks to a painful physical moment but never out of true feels. Until now.

He rocked back and forth. His legs held up high. His tears went out of his eyes.


	16. He

Disclaimers: I do not own Hannibal or Graham and I never will.

He dreamt. He slept. He ate.

He was feeling emptier and emptier by the days.

He doesn't know if everything will be the same.

He won't smile. He won't laugh. He won't change.

He knew that if he died that he'll go to Hell.

He loved little and hated more.

He wasn't afraid. He wasn't scared. He wasn't terrified.

He did fear.

His believes are gone.

His strengths have fled.

He lives in a shell of himself.

He just rocks back forth.

He thinks. He breathes. He sees.


	17. D

Disclaimers: I do not own Hannibal Lecter or William Graham and I never will.

Deception. Disgrace. He could tell that something inside was evil especially from looking at the scar on his face.

Disturbed. Disgraced. He asked for trouble when he couldn't believe.

Devious. Disturbed. He didn't want what he plainly deserved.

Deception. Devious. He was born in the grief of the world.

Disgraced. Devious. He was raised to hate all those who cared.

Disgrace. Deception. He was helpless to defy or change his fate.

He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. He wanted to live. But he could never really come alive. Every wound, every pain, and every stitch that he was forced to make was not a part of him. Nothing thing was a part of him.

He had once lied to himself. He still lies to himself. He knows that he was blind for he knew that he would do what he had done. And the truth was that his soul wasn't a part of his body. His soul was alone in Hell. His soul would fade. And no one will say:

He is not a part of himself. He is not one of himself. He doesn't care for himself for the deception, and disgrace has made him more devious and disturbed than all of his faith.


	18. Dawn

**Disclaimers**: I do not own William Graham and I never will.

**A/N**: I won't be updating this or my other Lecter/Will stories. I'm sorry about that but I've learned a lesson. I will not put up stories until I know I can finish it.

It finally dawned on him. It finally was dawn.

The sweet nothingness eclipses with the bitter ignorance.

The dawning of the realized things had come. It had come to him. It had begun.

Oh, the dawn was here. He knew it but no one else did.

The dawn was for him. He was the dawn.


	19. Smiling

**Disclaimers**: I do not own William Graham and I never will.

**A/N**: I won't be updating this or my other Lecter/Will stories. I'm sorry about that but I've learned a lesson. I will not put up stories until I know I can finish it.

Smiling; he never really stopped smiling.

Pain; it tried to stop him but it couldn't stop his smiling.

Grief; it tried to hide him but it couldn't stop his smiling.

Smiling; he never really ceased smiling.

Joy; it tried to give reasons but it didn't start him smiling.

Content; it tried to show reasons but it didn't start him smiling.

After everything. After nothing.

Smiling; all he could do was to keep on smiling.


	20. Bubble

**Disclaimers**: I do not own William Graham and I never will.

**A/N**: I won't be updating this or my other Lecter/Will stories. I'm sorry about that but I've learned a lesson. I will not put up stories until I know I can finish it.

A bubble.

He felt that he was in his own personal bubble.

He's been in a bubble all his life.

Has he ever tried to pop the bubble?

No, he wouldn't.

The bubble protected him.

A mere bubble protected him from everything.

But that didn't stop other people from poking his bubble.

They poked and they prodded over and over again.

But the bubble never broke.

No, his bubble couldn't break from any outside forces.

His bubble.

His bubble could only be broken from the inside.

For years he was close to breaking his own bubble.

So close.

But now the bubble was popped.

It was just that he didn't know who broke it.

_**Himself or the outside world.**_


	21. Green Monster

**Disclaimers**: I do not own Will Graham.

**A/N**: I know it has been such a long time since I updated, but I swear to you that I will never give up on a story especially not this one.

The Green Monster.

The machine of death.

The maker of murder.

He dreamed of Shiloh.

He dreamt of the snake.

He remembered the destruction.

He promised himself that he wouldn't transform.

But promises were made to be broken.

It was too late.

He started his work.

He was a monster.

And he hated himself.

**End-note**: I hope you all enjoyed. Reviews appreciated!


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